


Pink is Unsafe

by sugarby



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Fake Episode, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 08:24:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15190760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarby/pseuds/sugarby
Summary: "I don't..." Carlos squints at him, "Sorry, I'm not following you. What exactly is the problem?"That the two of them don't see each other as regularly as they could—as much as Cecil would like them to, but admitting that outright isn't going to put him in a good light. "I'm not really sure, I just know it's strange."(OR: a specific colour is deemed unsafe, a new business opens up with a secret ingredient we shouldn't know about, and there's a strange happening in Cecil's basement)..





	Pink is Unsafe

**Author's Note:**

> My entry into a fandom usually proceeds with a fic, so here I am. Hello and welcome! ❤ I suppose this is my first official wtnv fic if you don't count the crossover I wrote a few months ago. As I'm posting this, I've reached **Episode 59: Antiques** and I'm also reading _It Devours!_ , but I don't think there are spoilers in this (I tried not to put any, anyway).
> 
> I wanted to give this a better title but couldn't think of anything decent, so I titled it like the episodes that focus on one update among several. I sort of like that it doesn't give much away.
> 
> I hope it's an enjoyable read! ❤

Night Vale, in several ways, is a lot like any town—with citizens, businesses, mandatory participation in events, temporary but still quite threatening, other-wordly visits, and community colleges. Night Vale, in several ways, is  _not_  like any town—with dog parks that dogs and their owners  _have_  access to but  _shouldn't_ go in, a ban on specific foods that turn in to hostile creatures, mailmen that don't deliver mail so much as offer it in exchange for their safety once you've chased them down or caught them in a trap.

But it has a voice. Soothing, uplifting, caress your heart and whisper soft everythings in your ears while you pretend to be asleep voice, bringing the town's scheduled news and updates on anything and everything—except what we shouldn't know and aren't legally allowed to acknowledge. "A message from the Night Vale High School Curiosity Club—which was just formed moments ago."

And Night Vale school clubs, in a few but not too many ways, are and aren't like clubs in other schools from other places as outsiders might imagine. There are desks—with students' names carved in them from teeth, chairs—that levitate occasionally, a whiteboard, a TV, and a floating head for an advisor. It's subject matter is Science and all things concerning it, and in relation the town's resident scientist, Cecil's boyfriend, Carlos. The club members also prioritise capturing interesting finds in jars, shoving it in people's faces and saying  _'look! look what I just found!'_.

"Pink is now unsafe," Cecil says in regards to the declaration passed on from the club. "Because it's  _'not as a pink as it should be, therefore not really pink'_. Shades like rose, fuchsia and the inside of your eyelids are okay.  _'Not great, not terrible, but also not safe'_. They've also reassured us that the rash on our skin will develop exponentially before it cures in two to eight weeks."

Cecil spares a hand to write in his Little Reporter's Book of Big Boy Note Taking a reminder to redecorate. Finished, he squints at it with a hum, unable to remember even writing it just a moment ago. But sure, whatever; he was actually thinking of repainting his living room anyway. Apparently. So it says on the page before.

Behind the window of the recording booth with a cup of coffee for him, the newest Intern, Angella—orHanna, or even Pettra, or something unpronounceable that can't be heard properly but definitely spelt with a double letter though—holds up the only pen, Night Vale Community Radio Station branded, in their vicinity. She looks concerned, but otherwise indifferent holding hot coffee with her bare, scaly hands.

"If you're concerned by the particular pink you regularly come in contact with, the club advises you not to contact them for clarification because  _'we cannot help you, you're already scratching'_. And you are, aren't you? The club has stuck yellow sheets of paper with no words on them around town for promotional and recruitment purposes. Those interested will know all they need to, like where and when to meet and how many odd pairs of socks they must be wearing, when they join. Right now, I hear it's nine. Nine pairs of odd socks, listeners. This concludes the message from The Night Vale High School's Curiosity Club. Now, a word from our sponsor."

An instrumental, steady and low like an increasing melancholy that only allows you to nod slightly to music you once loved and vibrated to wholeheartedly, plays in the background:

> "Tired? Does life seem meaningless? No longer enjoying the things you love? Stuck in a rut at work? Then why not give yourself over to  _ **THE VOID**_? We'd appreciate bodies to possess and we only take the willing. No we don't, we also take the  _unwilling_  when they're deep in thought. Thinking too much? Then give yourself over to  _ **THE VOID**_. Accessible four days a week when you dine at Penny's. For inquiries that will be ignored, sacrificial bodies to donate and event planning, contact Penny the shapeshifting, white poodle. Penny's. You may as well. _You. May. As. Well_."

And that's it for today's news updates. 

Cecil reclines back and lets out a great sigh. The papers with the schedule order are flung behind, strained muscles are stretched and relaxes. He pulls at his shirt collar, restricting in the evening, desert heat, and he rests his elbows on the desk comfortably.

"Okay, let's talk about Carlos. He's been working really hard lately in his lab **—** so much that we haven't had time to go on dates. I admire his passion and drive to understands things in this town that we can't even begin to, but..." the excitement in his tone, how his voice personifies happiness itself in an energised frequency, gradually lowers to a tone of longing and concern, "I miss him."

It's impractical to bother the surveying agents of a Vague, Yet Menacing, Government Agency for details on Carlos' wellbeing. And it'll be unprofessional of him to just up and leave with ten or so minutes left of the show.

So Cecil decides, "I'm going to call him about a strange thing in my home." and, while knowing nothing of any strange thing in his home since this is an impulsively created lie, takes out his phone and calls Carlos. It's awful, he knows, but it's like they say: 'seeing is believing, and it's easier to see and believe with a pair of government issued binoculars and listening devices stationed around your home while you were absent.' But he can't install those sorts of things in Carlos' workspace; on top of needing an official permit that takes months to be looked at, it's likely he'd be tempted to neglect his duties just to watch him do what he does and do it so beautifully.  

_"Cecil?"_

"Carlos, hi!"

_"Hello. It's good to hear your voice."_  Carlos can be swamped at his lab with experiments and tests and whatnot, but it warms Cecil's heart that he usually answers his call before the second ring—and that 'he thinks it's good to hear my voice!' Cecil internally screams.  _"How are you?"_

"I'm great." As he always is talking to Carlos, being with him, feeling blessed by his existence and lucky that he lives in Night Vale  _with_  him. But now he's also perturbed by the distance in their voices, as nice as they are to hear back and forth like in a perfectly-conducted song. "How are you?"

_"I'm still running tests on these pink flamingos_ — _you know, the ones that cause whoever touches them to travel through time and space?"_ Cecil remembers. How can he not? The three of them—himself, Carlos and Old Woman Josie—were sat in his studio booth discussing it. He called the reaction 'weird magic' for lack of a scientific word, and Carlos said it was cute. Cute!  _"They're quite strange, and that's saying a lot considering this town."_

"I'm sure you'll get to the bottom of this soon."

_"I appreciate your faith in me but it's all Science really. Actually, I should get back to_ — _"_

"Before you go, Carlos," Cecil says, "I have a...strange problem." Vague. General. And people generally have vague problems, so it's not entirely a lie. It may not be a problem of his at this current time (21:58 the clock reads)but it can still be classed as a problem in general.

_"A strange,"_  Carlos emphasises the next word, _"Scientific problem?"_

"Uh, sure. There are strange happenings that I think you should look at."

_"Okay, yeah, I can take a look."_

Cecil cheers, claps. Carlos in his house is  _everything_! "Ohh, wonderful! Thank you! I've missed you so, so much, Carlos. And, you know...there's the strange happening in my home.."

Carlos laughs and that instead is  _everything_. "Honey, that's any given day in this town." he points out not skeptically but adoringly. Cecil's cute when he tries to comprehend the science behind the Night Vale oddities. _"But sure, I can come over. I'll even bring dinner if you want."_ Cecil really shouldn't give any appraisal to the lie, and he still feels awful for lying to this lovable, kind man. However, he didn't expect his desire to see Carlos to end with a dinner date. Oh, what to wear?! What. To. Wear. Cecil?!  _"Cecil, you still there?"_

"Sorry! Yes, Carlos, dinner would be lovely. I'll see you later." Cecil lets Carlos hang up first but he doesn't send his phone back to his pocket. It stays out on his desk, its screen fading to black with the time **—** 21:46 **—** illuminated. After he gushes to his audience about the call and shares an enthusiastic prediction on where the night will take them, he directs them to the next segment, his show still lively with, like always, promise of more as things progress.

Steady guitar rifts raise in the background, then a man starts to sing:

_‘_ I cut off my head and my cheetah tongue,'  
'I can't think straight and my mouth is numb~’

 

_***   *** _

 

"Let's not rule anything out." Carlos's entry in to his boyfriend's home begins with a cautious step past the doorframe. He's been here before, of course, but as the boyfriend, not the scientist viewing the place now as a testing site, on constant survey for 'strange, weird magic' that requires his attention. Because scientists—good ones—don't leave much to chance when it comes to gathering data, he just throws this out there. "Angels?"

"Angels don't exist and we shouldn't acknowledge them."

Carlos makes a sound—lips closed, a registering hum in the back of his throat. The town denies their existence even though they can be seen, standing tall and glowing. Just there, most of them with Old Woman Josie, all of them named Erika. Cecil even spoke with one once and, with all things Night Vale Citizens are prohibited from knowing or acknowledging, openly discussed it on his show. "Forget I asked."

Cecil goes through the bag of groceries for their dinner. He peeks at an opaque container just blurring what's inside, but the sticker on the bottom depicting a white poodle happily gnawing on a severed arm is unmistakeable. "Aww, you bought dessert too."

"From that new place you mentioned on your show." Carlos explains absently, head reclined to the ceiling that's still wet from a fresh coat of pink in a different shade. "A white poodle ran the cashier's desk and took my order. It disappeared and came back as a doorknob—just a knob, no door accompanying it, and it's mouth was the keyhole." Sometimes, even in Night Vale, he can't believe the words coming out his mouth.

"That's Penny!" Cecil celebrates in a tone affiliated with proudness.

"Oh. Makes sense why someone shouted interloper at her."

"How sweet! They gave her the official welcome for newcomers. I hope she settles in here nicely." He plates the dessert and holds it out with a fork, silently wondering if they might try it now before dinner. "The secret ingredient she uses is blueberries, but we shouldn't know that."

Carlos can do the relatively normal thing and ask why he's just been told that if he shouldn't know, but it'd be a redundant question. Cecil's like this—informative and dedicated to the town despite the threat of repercussions that may await. If he doesn't report the kind of stuff we shouldn't know then citizens will be oblivious and more likely to be hurt or trapped or disappear for unexplained reasons. He looks at the dessert—a pie. Wheat and wheat-by products are still banned, so it's in-fact contained blueberries that have been stewed in syrup, and a scoop of vanilla ice-cream on top already melting. "I'll try it later, thank you. I'd like to start looking in to the strangeness."

"By all means." Cecil smiles and gestures, with an arm, around.

Carlos wanders around. The Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives In Your Home waves to him but he just misses her. She, disappointed, skitters away across the ceiling, and fresh painted prints are left behind. "Can you explain this strangeness, Cecil?"

Cecil really can't. "Could be a malevolent spirit. Or, you know..." his hand winds in a circular motion, expecting—still hoping—the rest to be filled in independently.

"I don't..." Carlos squints at him, "Sorry, I'm not following you. What  _exactly_  is the problem?"

That the two of them don't see each other as regularly as they could—as much as Cecil would like them to—but admitting that outright isn't going to put him in a good light. "I'm not really sure, I just know it's strange."

"You've said, but you're not sure what?"

Cecil’s shoulders and arms rise up in a lost gesture, “It could be anything.”

The Faceless Old Woman now standing between them to the side says, "You should check the basement, Cecil. You'll find it very strange." She's lived in Cecil's home—in all our homes—secretly for a long time. No one knows when she arrived so it's probable that she's always just been, you know? Like most things in life that have always been but are more so when you stop and think about them.

Carlos holds up his phone and starts waving it around, "I'll check the connection strength for any disruption. New password?" 

“It’s Khoshekh’s birthday.” The Faceless Old Woman says, then looks to Cecil and inquires, “How is he, Cecil?”

“Khoshekh’s birthday.” Cecil confirms and, looking straight ahead at his boyfriend, adds “He’s doing marvellous! Still  _so_  adorable! Still floating away in the men’s bathroom with his kittens, and still prone to present unimaginable terror and hostility if you try to take his picture." Carlos stops waving his phone and looks at him quizzically. That's nice to know and all, he supposes. It's nice for scientists to know a lot of things.

The Faceless Old Woman glares at them and moves away to (re)organise Cecil's collection of books by swapping their covers and disrupting their contents with added notes and switched letters.

“Your signal seems fine.”

“That’s good.”

“I really wish you could give me more, Cecil.”

"I trust you to get to the bottom of this. It's probably right under our feet." Cecil taps his foot on the hard kitchen tiling for emphasis.

Something beneath responds with a muffled hiss.

Carlos asks, "Did you hear that?!"

"I believe so." Cecil says.

Beneath the flooring hisses again, unearthly and angry and muffled by the distance.

Whatever that is, Cecil is reminded that the required action for Night Vale citizens to take in a situation like this is to cover all hands, ears, eyes and accessible vortexes to other, uncharted dimensions and pretend everything is okay—because it is.

Carlos speed-walks, surveying around again, giving each room a few seconds before moving on. 

He's reached the kitchen now, the homeyness of the warm-coloured tiles welcoming him back as if he never stepped out. Past the table and chairs and the bloodstone circle is an oak door leading down to the basement. Neither the door nor the basement itself are always present, an irregularity appearing some days then disappearing on others with whatever's stored away inside. 

"I don't mean to be so forward, Cecil, but I need access to your basement." Actually, this works out. He's wanted to check on this basement since he knew about it—almost went away with it too but got out in time—but Cecil tends to be shy and reserved about it. There's a legitimate excuse now. "For Science. You understand."

"Can't say I do," Cecil says because he's not a scientist. "But I know it's important to you, and it must be great if you're so passionately involved." This goes for all subjects, that they would be phenomenally improved with Carlos' involvement—his handsome, beautiful, kind presence. "I like the hearts you draw around the word science on your whiteboard. We have that in common."

"Science?"

"Nooo, drawing hearts around the things we love."

The basement door opens with a daunting, dragged out creak, and a thick darkness enveloping the entire lower floor and half of the stairs is all they can perceive.

"I think," Cecil says slowly, "The Faceless Old Woman wants us to...go and investigate."

"I do, Cecil." The Faceless Old Woman says from the bottom of the stairs.

Carlos takes a flashlight out from a pocket deep within his lab coat **(** those things can fit a vast amount of essential equipment for scientists on the go) and Cecil is vocally impressed by his resourcefulness, wondering what else he might keep on deck with him for other spontaneous actives. They hold hands and go downstairs, Carlos leading the way with his flashlight, Cecil close behind and hoping they actually find something strange so that his lie becomes the truth **—** if that'll even shed an inch of guilt off.

Due to its irregularity, Cecil's basement is more or less a spacious, empty room with a second bloodstone for convenience and brown, taped boxes collectively gathered in the middle. He notices one box is open and the clothes he stored away a long time ago are starting to spill out. “Odd. I don’t remember going through my old things the last time the basement appeared.” He rarely visits areas of his past when they leave blurs in his mind like rough scratchings over fine glass and make him feel incomplete compared to a lot of people.

"Wait **—"**  Carlos lifts the flashlight to the small, black fuzziness on one of the old shirts on top of the box. Moving. Rumbling, possible, or vibrating in its small stature. “Cecil, what’s that?”

“I can explain! It was on a sale and I was dared to—ohhh, you mean  _that_.” Cecil calms, seeing the same thing now. He thought Carlos was going to ask him about the embarrassing outfit he'd been coerced to buy as some sort of dare but never had the nerve to wear in public. Too plain and simple for his tastes, yuck!

Carlos approaches and the mould hisses, shrinks into itself and retreats to the end of the box, clinging on the old shirt, "I've never seen anything like this."

Cecil chuckles, "You've never seen mould? Really, Carlos  _the scientist_?"

"Cecil, it's  _moving_! It's  _hissing_  at me!" Carlos gestures to it frantically, honestly alarmed that this thing has lived in his boyfriend's basement for who knows how long?!

"How dare it?! Doesn't it know you're a Scientist?!"

As strange as it is with all the daily oddness, sometimes Carlos forgets he's not in his old town anymore and that Night Vale is  _what it is_. He feels for the lidded container he keeps on him at all times and thinks of how to safely secure it inside.

The Faceless Old Woman throws another one of Cecil's old shirts over it to disorientate it.

"Thanks, Faceless Old Woman." Carlos says without looking in her direction, unscrewing the lid of the container.

"You're welcome." She faintly smiles.

Carlos views the shirt with the mould moving under it, creating more creases. He bunches it up together with the tie, careful not to get bitten by the teeth shown when it hisses, and secures it in the container. He sighs in relief.

"You did it!" Cecil cheers.

“I’m heading back to the lab to run tests, the pink flamingos can wait." It would be a lot easier if computers were legal but scientists—good ones—make use of the resources around them. So they have these boxes with lights of their favourite colours that blink in random order and pass for equipment.

Cecil nods in agreement, proud of his firm resolution. But still, he’s leaving so soon. Before they even got to have dinner! Before they even tried to dessert! Before they got to talk—openly and enthusiastically by an open window for the convenience of the Neighbourhood Watch Program agents who lurk in all neighbourhoods and watch every citizen at all times—about their day.

Carlos takes some steps back and holds Cecil's face dearly in his hands. “I’m sorry I have to leave so suddenly, Cecil, but I'm a scientist." He explains with his usual reasoning with most things he ‘must’ do—even if the government tends not to see it that way and uses forceful means to deflect him from his research. 

“A  _good_  scientist, Carlos.”

“And you're a good radio host." Not necessarily because it’s his job—foreseen as a prophecy from an early age—and therefore has to be. Cecil's invested and in love with Night Vale—it's his home, this strange, small town is. Or so it seems small, but there are endless hallways and houses that shouldn’t exist which are linked to another world. It’s all—he internally waves a hand to dismiss it, everything up in the air and too vague to explain. “We do our jobs well and the town needs that. Night Vale needs us.”

"You're right."

Carlos kisses him, long and softly like a spell, then heads for the stairs. 

“Carlos!"

Carlos looks back over his shoulder, “Yes, Cecil?” and with the light from the kitchen above pushing past him, making him glow, he looks like a beautiful deity. A radiating handsomeness that makes his boyfriend's knees weak, makes his heart want to burst out and sing love songs at karaoke.

“...I didn’t know about the weird mould, I just—I wanted to see you!”

Carlos smiles, “I know, Cecil. I never miss your show. Your lie was coming from a good place.” Not that it makes Cecil any less guilty about it. Good, trusting couples don’t—well they shouldn’t lie to each other. Carlos, like a telepathic with unlimited access into our thoughts, says, “It’s alright, I miss you too. So I’ll see you later—don’t eat that dessert without me.” 

"Okay! I love you.”

Carlos’ reply echoes back, distant but close nevertheless, “I love you too.”

 

_***   *** _

 

“—And that’s why it's illegal to run with double-edged knives unless you’re leading an official, elementary school group and have permission from the City Council.” 

It's the next evening proceeding the expedition in to his basement—which disappeared earlier, along with the Cecil's clothes from a nostalgic time he can't remember and doesn't want to. 

“I'm getting word that Pamela Winchell is holding an emergency press conference outside Penny's—you know, that new place that opened up and moonlights as a therapeutic group."

_**THE VOID**_  so the sponsor called it. Located in the underground storage space of Penny's, it offers snacks, refreshments and group discussions on questions without answers to Night Vale citizens in exchange for kindly offering their body to be possessed for an indefinite time. And time is tricky in this town—never a question of  _when?_  but unsure delivers of  _maybe? If time feels like it? If it wants to, sure._

"Jumping energetically on the spot, Pamela said that she tried Penny's dessert and it's delicious **!**  She mentioned that the secret ingredient is blueberries but we shouldn't know that, and everyone gathered around her just watched as she continued to jump with the energy of a dedicated athlete. In regards to her press conference, the City Council has announced that secret keeping will now be an enforced law, and violators will be punished by ear pinching and eye poking that can last up to a minimum of three minutes."

New Intern Angella—orHanna, or even Pettra, or something unpronounceable that can't be heard properly but definitely spelt with a double letter though—looks up from her half-eaten plate of the dessert with wide, horrified eyes.

“An update on Carlos and I. We're great! Turns out he knew I was lying all along but he said it was coming from a good place. He returned later and we had a magical night! The dessert from Penny's is, as Pamela said while jumping,  _delicious_! "Carlos expressed sincerely to me while we were in my basement—the one that sometimes is and sometimes isn't there—that you all need us. To soothe and comfort you in dire and confusing times. We all have important roles in this town but some of us are just invisible to the human eye. Some of us are easier to steal away in the night. Some of us—"

Banging, heavy, violent and desperate, against the station booth window interrupts.

"What the—?" Cecil turns around. "New Intern Angella(?)—" he says with a question mark incorrectly placed because it could be Hanna, or even Pettra, or something unpronounceable but still spelt with a double letter. "—is banging frantically on the window. She's mouthing at me and pointing to something. She's...saying hello, I think.” He waves to her, happy she seems excited about her internship. “Hello—Angella, is it? Hi! And hello to the agent behind you! It's nice of them to visit in person instead of lurking in bushes for a change."

Angella(?) is now lying on the floor in a foetal position, her ears an unsafe shade of pink from being pinched and her eyes tearing up from being poked. The agent from the Vague, Yet Menacing, Government Agency who snuck in is no longer with her.

“Listeners, it appears I have a voicemail. Sent to me...yesterday morning. Huh.” Cecil says, staring at his phone like he doesn’t recognise it. “Must've missed it. Guess I’ll just play it now.”

> _ “Hello, Cecil, it’s me, the Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives In Your Home. I was cleaning your house because it’s so cluttered when I went to the basement and discovered the sentient mould growing on your boxes of old clothes. I tried removing it with anti-bacterial chemicals but it hissed at me, so I left it alone. Just thought you should know. Also, your fridge is on fire. It was upsetting me.” _

“Thank you, Faceless Old Woman. Carlos is running tests on it as we speak, so we should hear something soon.” Rather than calling her back, he presumes she’s listening to this broadcast right now. “That’s all I have, listeners. Stay tuned next for passionate shrieking at a frequency only cats can hear but don't quite care for. And as always, goodnight, listeners. Goodnight.”

**Author's Note:**

> The weather is Cheetah Tongue by The Wombats. Today's proverb: If I had a nickel for every threatening, government conspiracy that turned out true, the government would take all my money and I'd be on the run.'
> 
> *a). Penny owns and runs her business against the preference of her owner—a lovely lady—who wants her to forget about leading an army of possessed bodies and remain a loved, family companion. Penny can't communicate besides barking, telepathic howling and smiling. b). It's possible Intern Angella(?) is a mermaid.
> 
> This has been fun to write, so I hope it's been a nice read for you. You have my thanks! ❤ ( ´ ▽ ` )ﾉ
> 
> **P.S.** I googled Penny's after posting this just to see if it happens to be an actual restaurant and, surprisingly, it is, and it's my hometown.


End file.
